


Lilies White

by Hakuryen



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, canon compliant and hanahaki-induced suicidal ideation, hanahaki with a twist, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakuryen/pseuds/Hakuryen
Summary: And – it was ironic, wasn't it? For him, he who had never felt any feelings that exceeded polite friendliness, to be the one who'd fall victim to this disease that fed from true love only.





	Lilies White

**Author's Note:**

> This is not usually the type of story I write, but this idea has been bouncing around my head for months now and I finally sat down to write it. I took some liberties with the Hanahaki disease, making it my own, so please tell me what you think about my concept!  
> Take care, and enjoy x

It was an ever-present disease, well-known amongst the plebeians, well-ignored in the higher classes of society. With the first cases of illness having erupted centuries ago, certain remedies and studies have been long established.

That was all Salieri had known. Whispers of it had reached his ears even through the thick veil of aristocratic avoidance of the topic, but he discarded it. In all the years he had spent on this earth, he had never felt even an inkling of love towards another person, much less the romantic kind.

His work was his only love.

And – it was ironic, wasn't it? For him, he who had never felt any feelings that exceeded polite friendliness, to be the one who'd fall victim to this disease that fed from true love only.

 

~❁~

 

It had been such a normal day in the court. He and Rosenberg were only meant to pay Mozart's rehearsal a short visit to see whether they could deem him worthy of playing for the emperor.

Salieri was already planning the further proceedings in his day as they stepped into the rehearsal hall, coming upon pure chaos. The musicians were impatiently waiting for Mozart to conduct them, who was currently busy running after and playing around with some woman. Finally, the prima donna called him to attention, none of them having noticed their presence yet, until finally Salieri had enough and spoke up.

"Mozart," his voice had cut through all the noise in the room, immediately making everyone listen up, and he told him of the reason of Rosenberg's and his presence, and of their concerns.

"How can you judge my work without even having heard the first note?" Mozart had erupted and, oh, this was new in this world of cold noblesse. Looking back, this was probably what had planted the seed.

Rosenberg had left, but Salieri stayed, intrigued by what he would be met with, and then Mozart dropped the scores into his hands, giving him a visual taste of what was to come.

And it was breathtaking. So full of emotions, unknown of in the world of music he was familiar with, the many notes coming together like different spices in a dish, making it an incredible whole. Where the pieces of other musicians usually entered his head through one of his ears and immediately left through the other, Mozart's melodies went right into his bloodstream, cursing through his veins and warming him up, making a soft feeling blossom in his heart. By the end of it it felt like his throat was constricted with how much emotion he felt, but no, that wasn't it, something really was forcing his way up so once the last note faded away he made one last comment and fled. His feet carried him to the outside gardens, where he used a tree for support as he bended over, coughing.

A few moments later, a longish white petal had forced its way out of his trachea and fell into his hand. It was beautiful, even in its wrinkled and saliva-covered state. He let it fall to the floor.

He must've unbeknownst inhaled it on the way to the rehearsal hall; it was spring, after all, and many petals and pollens were making their way through the air.

 

~❁~

 

If only that had been it. If only he were allowed to wallow in this sweet thing called ignorance just a bit longer. If only he had never walked into that cursed room.

One can only be in denial for so long; and the frame of that was considerably shortened when, with every time Salieri caught sight of Mozart or even just heard a bar of his music, the same petals forced themselves out of his throat. And they were increasing in mass.

Then came the day that he could begin to feel a constant pain in his chest, as if something had clawed its way into his ribcage and didn't intend to let go. Soon after, with each obligatory visit he paid to Mozart's rehearsals, white petals turned red.

The night he nearly choked on the flowers and blood he coughed out, he decided to take action.

 

~❁~

 

"Herr Salieri," the doctor greeted him; he wasn't one of the royal or noble healers, no, those would only endanger him to gossipping and who knew if they would even know their way around this strange parasite that had found its home in him. "What gives me the honour of your requesting me? Surely the physicians at court are better fitted to serve just fine?"  
"Thank you for having me. And no, I am of the belief that those will not be able to help me, and, Herr Huber, you understand that this is entirely confidential?"

A short nod from the other man, and, never one for many words, Salieri let the whole flower heads that he had coughed up last, drenched in crusty blood, fall on the table.  
Mouth forming around a soft _'Oh'_ at the sight of them, the doctor looked up to him and motioned towards one of the chairs in his practice.

With weary eyes, he looked at his patient.  
"There is no need of a physical examination or a requirement for further symptom-mapping, surely you know that there's only one possible cause for this. How much do you know about this illness that has befallen you, Herr Salieri?"

"It affects those in love with somebody who doesn't reciprocate."  
"That's all?" A curt nod. "I will tell you more about it then, before we talk about treatment. Do you ever read romance novels?"  
What a sudden and, dare he say it, stupid question. "No."  
"Well – I do. And the notion of a heart blooming with love hasn't come from nowhere. Just that this illness is, as you already said, caused only by unrequited love, and a pure and unconditional one at that. Many people are of the belief that this affects only romantic love, but there have been cases of children who've been neglected by parents showing the same symptoms. This disease inside of you is a flower and your feelings are … its seasons, per se. I assume that it hasn't been long since you first coughed up flowers?" A nod. „Your disease is still in spring, then.“

"I don't care about that. I came here to find out what to do about it." The chair he was sitting in was uncomfortable, the room filled with various memorabilia and medical objects that made it look stuffed. His eyes had impatiently roamed over the shelves while the doctor explained.  
"There is .. some options. The most sought out is that of taking a draught over a certain amount of time; it will act as a kind of herbicide and kill off this disease. It is the quickest and most painless method. However, all feelings towards this individual you love will be annulated. No love, no friendship, no hate. Every possible emotion about them or the things that remind you of them will be negated."  
This is what he had hoped for. Why was he hesitating? An easy fix, just as the rumours had suggested – if only they had mentioned its side effects. Would fighting back remove any feelings he had towards Mozart's music, too? Would his life become as drab as it had been before again, when the only joy he had ever perceived could possibly be taken forever?  
"What other options are there?"

"I'm afraid only one, which is to wait it out. Most people who can't afford treatment choose to cut the object of their affections out of their lives. This is a long, arduous process, as the disease persists while the affected wait for their feelings to naturally wither away. Then, on the other hand, are those poor fellows who aren't in a position to, or don't want to, leave the orbit of whoever caused their feelings."  
Salieri struggled to swallow against the lump in his throat. "What happens to those? Do they die?"  
"Not necessarily, no." At this, the doctor leaned back into his chair heavily, heaving out a sigh. "The disease will not be the cause of death itself, but its symptoms might be. People choking on the petals they cough up, suffocating because the plant is giving their lungs no room to breathe, bleeding out from the inside because their illness has grown thorns … There's plenty of gruesome cases of death, but just as many of people who have survived all their life with this illness inside of them."  
He'd rather die than not feel anything for Mozart or his music. Resigned, he stood up.  
"Thank you, doctor. I will soon send payment your way."

 

~❁~

 

He distanced himself.

For as much as he could, at least. It was still his duty to supervise the ongoings of Mozart's work, but he could push that off to Rosenberg in most cases and whatever rehearsals were left were few and far in between.   
It didn't take him long to realise what the doctor had meant by his feelings being this disease's seasons. Whenever they had flared out, whenever he had been in Mozart's mesmerising vicinity, this weed inside of him grew and bloomed as if it was summer, fed by the sunlight of Mozart's smile and the soft dew-drops of his music.  
Now that he stayed away, it was winter.

He couldn't remember the last time his chest hadn't felt cold, as if the branches that had taken hold of his lungs and heart were covered by frost. He didn't cough up anything anymore, at least, but breathing itself was difficult, and finding sleep was a trial, even though his servants brought him bed-warmers and warm herbal teas en masse.

He didn't know which was worse.   
Some days were worse than others, the deepest of winters having taken over his heart and pushed him to desperation; taken over by violent shivers and freezing lungs, he could barely pay attention, think of nothing but the want to see Mozart again, just so that he could remember what warmth felt like. It was on one of those days that Rosenberg pulled him into his schemes.

Impatient in his state, he had mocked Rosenberg for liking Mozart's music, like the hypocrite he was; and when, the following moment, the man had told him of his plan he couldn't focus on his words, simply agreeing to whatever he said. Only much later did the words register, and he realised what he had done.  
That day he slipped into the back of the hall Mozart and his musicians rehearsed in, knowing full well that he had just let himself be roped into a complot and that this angel would fall from grace soon. Still, he soaked up the warmth; and later, when he choked out whole flower heads in the privacy of a restroom, he hoped he'd choke on them.

 

~❁~

 

He had sworn himself that he wouldn't go against Mozart like this again, after he had already allowed the first seeds of discord to be sown in the court.

He should've known that such things wouldn't be granted to him.

It was quite a while later; the emperor was to have a look at Mozart's Figaro, the one which Rosenberg had censored. Mozart was upset, and expressed such to the emperor. It hurt.   
His disease let him be for once, but his heart already hurt on its own from seeing his sun so upset, and without thinking twice, he allowed for it to be played as intended. He wasn't met with shining gratitude as he had hoped, but much rather with a mocking _'Thank you'_ , but it had been enough to stur this pest inside of him. As discreetly as he could, Salieri fled to the farthest corner of the room and coughed into his handkerchief. The few petals that had tickled his throat lay on it, thankfully bloodless, and he hid it from view as fast as possible. How foolish of him to not leave the room completely – as was proven just a moment later when Rosenberg appeared at his side.  
"I saw that," he hissed. "Don't tell me that -" A hateful side glance towards Mozart. "How utterly unacceptable! _Disgusting!_ "  
In his panic, Salieri's breath came out rattling. If Rosenberg were to know the truth – the scandal would be so much more damaging than a mere case of this disease would be. For if it came out that he had caught it because of a _married man_. He would be ruined.  
"No," Salieri whispered, voice steady despite his inner turmoil. "Not because of _him_."  
The suspicion didn't leave the older man's eyes. "Then why did you do that. Are you mind-sick too? Do you want me to fail or what?"  
He had done it because he couldn't bear seeing Mozart downtrodden. But he couldn't tell the truth, now could he?   
"I simply saved you from the mess you almost got the two of us into. Figaro is an affront to the nobility, they will never forgive him."   
What had he done.

 

~❁~

 

That night was the worst of all.

What he experienced was neither fully summer nor winter, yet both at once; his chest wasn't quite freezing but still rigid, the claw-like branches even rougher in their clutch around his innards; no matter how many flowers he coughed out, they seemed to come up at twice that rate.

_So that must be what autumn feels like_ , he thought as he lay there in the bathroom where it was least likely that his servants would hear him. The bottom of the bathtub in front of him was entirely covered in those white flowers painted red. Even when he wasn't choking up petals, he had trouble breathing – as if a constant wind was stealing the air from his lungs. Once more, he began retching.

To his alarm, it felt different this time; instead of the iron-tangy lump he was used to, something scratched up his trachea and tore cuts into his tongue and gums.

Thorns.   
There were thorns amongst his flowers now. This was it, then. Salieri really was dying.

Except he didn't.

He kept retching and vomiting and suffocating but it _didn't happen_. He lay there for what felt like hours, and soon he began eyeing the barber's knife on his bathroom counter with resignation. Maybe it really would be better to just do it quick than to draw it out until the flowers were finally too much for him. Because, really, what was he doing? He was longing after a man he could never have, he called himself a _musician_ and _artist_ when clearly all inspiration had left him and all he could do was scrap everything he managed to jot down night, after night, after _night._ He was tired.  
Yet he couldn't bring himself to grab for it, just kept lying in front of this damned tub filled with flowers and waited for this death that wouldn't come until, in the early morning hours when the sun touched the earth again, his coughing receded and his chest felt less tight and he could _breathe_ again.

Later that day, he went through his duties at court just as normal, and he didn't require the side-glances other people gave him to know that he looked like death warmed over.

He could ignore those unimportant figures well enough, but it was just his luck that the one person he couldn't ignore came across him on that day.  
"Salieri?" Mozart's voice reached him while he leaned against a wall to rest; his disease might've pulled back again, but the damage it had done hadn't yet healed. His throat was still raw from the thorns and breathing alone _hurt_. "Are you okay? You look like you should be in bed resting, not wandering around the court."

His heart bloomed for his concern.

"It's fine, Mozart, go away." _I don't want you to see me like this_.

"...Okay." And then he left, and Salieri was both relieved and disappointed at once, but he could focus on neither as he could already feel flower heads make their way up his throat.

So he fled to a restroom and did what he had grown so used to, until a knock interrupted him.  
"Salieri? Please let me in," he heard Da Ponte say. "Mozart sent me, he's worried."  
Wordlessly, he unlocked the door, not moving from where he was again leaning against the wall, flowers in his hands and to his feet.

"Christ," Da Ponte cursed as soon as he took in the scene.

"What do you want?" came his reply, followed by another bout of vomited blossoms.

"Mozart is worried about you but he thinks that you hate him – not without reason, may I say – so he sent me instead. Oh God, is that ..."  
"Yes," Salieri croaked. "It's the proof that just the opposite is the case."

 

 

~❁~

 

It was months later, and they were _celebrating_. Celebrating Mozart's downfall, their _victory_.

As if.

He knew that Mozart would never give up, would never lose that joy he put in other people's eyes and hearts.

It was him who had truly lost. What good was this fickle feeling of superiority if it was at the expanse of the one he loved. Maybe alcohol could drown all these feelings he didn't want, this disease in his chest.

 

~❁~

 

Soon after, Mozart died.

 

~❁~

 

He didn't go to his funeral.

God knows people wouldn't want him there. Except for Mozart's wife, no one had witnessed their reconciliation on Mozart's death bed. He had never been this close to his sun. He had never felt so far.

"We shall meet again," they had said and, oh, his heartstrings and this disease in him both had quivered like willow branches; even if he were a religious man he knew that he'd never get into that heaven Mozart belonged too. He wished, he wished so dearly. Wished for this man to keep persisting, wished for some egoistic reassurance that this wasn't _his fault._ Wished that he had seen this smile that the man was giving him now, this most sincere and loving gaze, much earlier than this. That he would keep seeing it, and not intended for a friend, but for a beloved.

He had never been granted wishes.

Even if he had gone to join the other mourners - his chest felt so tight, he might have coughed up a whole bouquet had he seen Mozart's pretty face one last time.

Instead, he went at dusk when nobody else was there, and laid his bundle of flowers on top of the mountain that had already taken its place atop the grave. White lilies. Not the ones he had been coughing up for years now, no, much rather proper ones from a florist he had walked by a few times on his strolls through Vienna. A florist who soon would see him as a regular, for he'd lay down flowers at Mozart's grave until he was dead.

 

~❁~

 

More months went by, and the disease did not waver. Salieri wasn't sure he could remember how Mozart looked anymore. It wasn't so strange, after all he had been his sun, and looking at him for too long would've blinded him.

Nevertheless, it still hurt.

As did the tendrils and thorns inside of him, and the deep winters that ravaged through his ventricles, and the blossoms that still came up when he heard echoes of Mozart's music being played at court.

One night, his inhibitions lowered by pain and the more sociable liquids, he admitted to Da Ponte that the disease hadn't perished with its cause. It may have seemed like it, after all the deep winters gnawing at his bones were always the easiest to hide.

"You know," the other man had drawled, the both of them catching fresh air on one of the balconies. "I used to be in love with this girl. I was still quite young, barely a man, and we fooled around a bit. She ended up getting married to another. I was heartbroken over it, lamented over tears for months. Until I realised that it wasn't her that I had been so in love with. It was the idea of her. I never really got to know her, but I loved this fantasy of what she could be in my head. But I couldn't draw a distinction between the two until much later, because I just didn't _know_. And maybe it's the same with Mozart and his music for you." He took a big swig from his wine glass. "But who knows. Maybe you're still in love with him, maybe it was really only his music all along. The question is what you want to do about it. I heard there was a remedy?"  
He fled.

 

~❁~

 

It was no question that he was unconditionally in love with Mozart's music.

Had he ever been in love with Mozart himself?   
It was too late to find out. Maybe, had he done everything better, he could've really loved the man the way he deserved. Maybe he could have been loved back. Maybe.   
Salieri knew that the easy way would be to just take the remedy, to let go of his crushed heart and the disease still pressing in on it.  
He hadn't been able to do it back then, so how would he be able to do so now.

He might be dying, but Mozart's music was the only thing that made him feel alive nowadays.

Every so often, he went to concertos that were still being played in honour of his sun, and, every so often, he left flowers behind for him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... Comments, Kudos & Bookmarks much appreciated.  
> Come scream at me on Tumblr or Twitter! (hakuryen on both)


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